


finding my way back to you

by Anonymous_Ostrich



Series: of Ineffable Bedrooms & Uncertain Futures [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale is the only angel that isn't completely horrid, Blackmail, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Post-Canon, Top Crowley (Good Omens), Vaginal Sex, michael works out the 'switch'
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-06-24 19:50:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19730602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous_Ostrich/pseuds/Anonymous_Ostrich
Summary: They say when it rains, it pours. Sometimes, however, the pouring part happens even when there isn't a cloud in the sky. If only it hadn't started raining right when a certain angel and demon were finally getting cozy.i.e. Not all angels are so easily fooled, and Crowley suddenly finds himself on the receiving end of a bit of angelic blackmail which entails he hurt the only human-shaped entity in the universe he cares about. The alternative is much, much worse.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic can probably stand on its own, but for context I would recommend reading part 1 of this series, [just a harmless little venial sin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19378927), before diving into this one. :)

It took God six days to create the Heavens and the Earth, and a fiddly seventh to do the whole Blessing thing. In Crowley's opinion, six days was enough time to get just about _anything_ done if one was really, really motivated to do it, it's just that most people - and occasionally demons, in his case - sometimes lacked motivation. As Crowley swaggered out of _A.Z. Fell & Co_. after six solid days of shagging its angelic proprietor in its newly miracled bedroom, Crowley thought that while six days was certainly enough time to get anything done - and in this case, that was _loads_ of shagging - sometimes six days wasn't enough. Not after roughly six-thousand years of hopeful anticipation, anyway.

" _You're leaving?" Aziraphale's voice carried a note of thinly veiled distress, but it was so successfully heartrending Crowley almost considered spending the next one-hundred years in Aziraphale's bed, no questions asked._

_It was difficult to navigate his way out of the heaps of sheets and blankets on Aziraphale's bed, but somehow or other Crowley managed to fight his way out. He stood up and stretched his spine, earning a satisfying pop. "S'been almost a week, angel. No complaints here, obviously, but I'm pretty sure you have a bookshop to run."_

_Crowley extended his hand and Aziraphale took it, allowing himself to be pulled into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. "Oh yes, of course, I… Well, I didn't mean that we shouldn't eventually get back to it, really, I just-"_

_Crowley leaned over and silenced him with a soft kiss, and then pecked his forehead for good measure. When he pulled away he'd miracled his clothes back on, but Aziraphale settled for pulling the sheets around himself like a make-shift robe. Crowley eyed the crease in his brow. "You said you wanted plants, right?"_

_Aziraphale met Crowley's eyes in mild bewilderment. "What?"_

_"Plants. Said so a couple of days ago, you mentioned I should bring some plants over, brighten up the room. Remember?"_

_Aziraphale smiled warmly. "Quite right, of course. There's no hurry, just, ah, whenever you have time."_

_Crowley leveled him a look. "Angel, we've been fucking for six straight days. Maybe let's just accept that we're in a-" Crowley gestured vaguely at, well, everything, "-thingy. A relationship, ah, thing." Aziraphale's face flushed adorably. Crowley cleared his throat. "Anyway. I've got some things to take care of at the flat, is all, but I'll be back soonish."_

_Aziraphale audibly sighed, his hands joining together in his lap. "Oh good. Honestly, I wasn't really sure what the next step was. Glad that's sorted."_

_Crowley laughed through his nose and offered a hand to help Aziraphale off the bed. The angel did so, with a slight wince; Crowley's brow dipped in immediate concern._

_"Are you…?"_

_Aziraphale waved him off. "Oh, I'm quite fine. Simply not used to having something, er, down there. And as you said, it's been six days."_

" _Oh. Oh, yeah." Crowley nodded understandingly. "I'd expect if you were human you wouldn't be walking at all, right now."_

_"No, I'd expect not." Aziraphale grinned, pulling Crowley to him by his tie to press a kiss to his cheek. "Don't… don't stay away for too long, my dear."_

_Crowley grinned back. "Angel, I've never been able to stay away. You know that."_

And so Crowley was leaving, and he _hated_ it. There was nothing for it, however; Crowley didn't live with Aziraphale, he had his own flat, and although there was really nothing that demanded his attention there aside from his plants, he couldn't just abandon it, either. Not until he and Aziraphale came to some sort of arrangement. Was it too early for that? Was that even something Aziraphale would want? Crowley certainly didn't know, but he also knew that fretting about living arrangements before said living arrangements had even been discussed was a bit silly. And slightly unnecessary. They'd known each other for _six bloody_ _millennia_. He assumed the only thing keeping them from living together up until now had been the risk of their unlikely friendship being discovered by their respective 'sides', but sides were no longer a concern. For the moment, anyway.

At any rate, Crowley needed to tend to his plants. They hadn't been shouted at for nearly a week and he worried they were getting too comfortable.

Crowley pulled up to his building and climbed out of the Bentley in a daze. It was still hard to digest, everything that had happened days ago. He and Aziraphale, well they really _did_ that, didn't they? Really laid it all out there and started something new. And it felt great. Crowley had loved Aziraphale for almost longer than he could recall, but he never once thought Aziraphale could feel the same way about him. It almost seemed to make more sense like that, actually, but in retrospect Crowley didn't generally go for sensible things. This felt too right to be a mistake, anyway, and as Crowley rode the lift to his floor all he could think about was how _right_ it felt. He might've done a little skip and a kick had there been room.

As soon as Crowley pulled open his door he was off after his plants as if on a track - his plants were almost always the first thing he attended to when coming home - but he stopped cold just shy of the hallway when he sensed an extra presence in the room with him.

Crowley turned on his heel. A figure stood beside his desk, dramatically swallowed by shadow, but Crowley knew the silhouette from first glance and it took everything in him not to shout every curse word in every language on the spot.

"Michael, dude," Crowley said with an amiable grin. He poured every bit of his focus into exuding pure nonchalance, mentally scrambling to embody the role of 'demon who survived the holiest of holy water baths'. "If I'd known you were coming, I might've put the kettle on."

Michael's smile was as plastic as it always was. "Crowley," she said, her hands joined daintily at her waist, "So nice to finally meet you."

 _Danger. Don't falter_. "Oh we've met before. Unless you've forgotten that little bath you drew for me not too long ago? Which would be rude, by the way, and I know angels don't do rude." The sarcasm was sharp as a knife.

Michael lay a hand against the back of Crowley's throne. To Crowley's discomfort, she looked entirely unbothered. A little cocky, actually. "You mean the bath that Aziraphale took _for_ you?" she asked him idly. Crowley couldn't have been more shocked if all the angels of Heaven burst out from the dark corners of his flat wearing party hats and yelled 'surprise!' Somehow, despite the panicked screaming currently sounding off in his brain, Crowley managed a look of casual confusion. Michael seemed unbothered by that, too, and pressed on.

"I can't deny the cleverness of your little ruse, of course, but I worked it out. It was only a matter of time, really. You must have known we would figure it out eventually, yes?"

Crowley was glad demons couldn't sweat, if only because he'd hate to ruin his favorite shirt. His brain was clawing for any excuse, any rationalization, any possible 'ha! Bet you didn't think of THIS!' comeback that may exist, but nothing came. Michael was right. It had only been a matter of time, he just wished that particular amount of time had been longer. A few years, maybe, instead of just a few measly months.

And then, it hit him like a brick to the face; If Michael was here confronting him about this, who was at Aziraphale's bookshop? _Who was threatening Aziraphale_?

Crowley's mood changed in an instant. His fear dissolved and was quickly replaced with desperate fury, filling him up like a thick, boiling hot liquid; any sense of self-preservation he'd had moments ago when he'd been wildly plotting his escape from the flat fled from him. Crowley's wings burst from his back without even having summoned them, black, tattered feathers stretching to the ceiling to appear as intimidating as possible. Not terribly effective, considering Michael could certainly destroy Crowley without breaking a proverbial sweat - she was the archangel of war, after all - but Crowley couldn't concern himself with any of that right now. Aziraphale's safety was his top priority. The thought of Aziraphale being confronted by Gabriel or Sandalphon or any other one of those sneering angels... Those bastards had been only too happy to burn him to angelic cinders not too long ago, he could only imagine what they'd be planning for him now.

"If your lot so much as _breathes_ on Aziraphale the wrong way," Crowley growled, his voice rough and stormy, "I promise you I'll fight until my _last dying moments_ to take as many of you down as I can."

"Commendable, for a demon. But entirely pointless, considering we both know you're no match for me," Michael said pleasantly, though she did seem a little hesitant to come any closer. Crowley found some satisfaction in _that_ , at least. Michael clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "An angel taking the form of a demon, and vice versa… It really is quite brilliant, if not appallingly blasphemous. It shows a creativity that many of us lack, myself included. What I lack in creativity, however, I make up for in observation. I'm rather meticulous, in fact."

Shit. Shit shit _shit_. What now? There was only one thing Crowley could come up with, one sorry little idea his brain managed to scrape up.

"It was my idea," Crowley spat out. This wasn't true at all, of course; it had been a largely mutual decision based on a few tipsy hours of debating what Agnes's final prophecy could possibly mean and it was Aziraphale who had connected the final dots, but Crowley couldn't let Aziraphale take the blame for this. Certain images of blazing hellfire came to mind, followed closely by images of Aziraphale walking into a funnel of flames and perishing in screams. Crowley had already Fallen. He couldn't let Aziraphale suffer, couldn't allow Aziraphale to Fall or be destroyed. "It was all me. Aziraphale didn't want to do it, any of it, but I convinced him. He didn't know you were planning to kill him, he still had faith that you were _fair_ and not _completely monstrous_ , but I knew my side would destroy me for what I'd done. So I made him do it. It was me."

Michael's smile was frustratingly patient. "Be that as it may," she mused, "Aziraphale still went through with it. He still deceived us all."

"And if he hadn't, you would have _murdered_ him!" Crowley shot back, furious. "If self-defense is a sin now, I guess I'll take that one for him, too. Just..." Crowley drew a deep breath in through his nose but did not let it out again. "Just punish me, yeah?" he said, wishing he could sound a little less pleading. His voice was shamefully tight in his throat. "Leave Aziraphale out of it. You can destroy me or torture me or do whatever tickles your fancy. But leave him alone."

"Such loyalty," Michael mused. "Though, you don't have to worry about your traitorous cohort quite yet. You see, I'm the only one who knows the truth. Everyone else - both in Heaven and Hell, I'd expect - still believe your little act. I haven't informed the others."

Crowley's wings were still raised high and threateningly arched, feathers pointed at the intruder, and they did not relax even an inch at Michael's reassurance. "I don't believe you," Crowley hissed.

Michael spread her arms in a gesture of what Crowley supposed was meant to imitate goodwill. "I'm afraid it's quite true," she said gently. "I chose to investigate all on my own. I get the feeling that everyone else is still too shaken up to even consider the possibilities, but I've never been one to ignore suspicious happenings."

Crowley's panic hadn't let up an inch. "Congratulations. Have a gold star, then. You've figured it all out and now you're here to, what? Gloat?"

"Not at all," Michael answered in a mock-wounded tone. She finally stepped closer. Crowley's wings went rigid and made themselves look as sharp as possible. "Quite the contrary. I'm here to propose a deal."

.

.

.

Aziraphale glanced at his pocket watch with a disapproving grimace. Crowley was late, wasn't he, which was silly really because Crowley had been the one who called and invited him here at this specific time.

" _Meet me at St. James's Park in fifteen minutes. By the bench_."

It was more like twenty-five minutes now, and Aziraphale couldn't help but feel a little apprehensive. The last he'd seen Crowley, they'd just spent the better part of six days making love and admitting to more than a few feelings, with the added promise of seeing each other again very soon. Aziraphale certainly hadn't expected to get such a strangely aloof call after all _that_. He'd imagined something more romantic and unexpected; hearing the bookshop door open, glancing round the corner and finding himself face-to-face with a demon who barely says hello before they're kissing, touching, and possibly spending another few days up in Aziraphale's new bedroom. Or perhaps that was a bit of wishful thinking. Aziraphale had to admit now that they'd finally taken this plunge, he found himself 'wanting'. It was six-thousand years in the making, after all.

But this… This was strange. Crowley sounded so cold on the phone, nearly irritated, nothing like the demon who had recently spent six entire days showering him with praise and devotion and care.

It was a very typical day in St. James's Park. People were strolling, jogging, walking their dogs and occasionally staring at their phones and tuning out the rest of the world. Humans had lots of reasons for coming to St. James's Park, but Aziraphale had only ever had one reason: meeting with Crowley. Crowley was all of his reasons for doing many things, Aziraphale reflected while he impatiently watched a pair of ducks having it out over a speck of bread. Crowley connected so many pieces of his life. Possibly all of them. Aziraphale suddenly felt as though he should have made mention of that, at some point during those amazing six days.

He should be feeling rather lovey-dovey, but after that phone call, all Aziraphale could feel was a cold nervousness settling like a sickness in the bottom of his stomach.

"Hey," came a flat voice from behind, and Aziraphale started, turning to find Crowley standing with his hands jammed in his pockets and a sullen look on his face. Aziraphale realized he must have been rather absorbed in his haphazard thoughts not to have noticed Crowley's presence.

"Crowley," Aziraphale exhaled a breath and came nearer in concern; Crowley took a half-step back. Aziraphale froze. "Crowley, what's wrong? Why have you called me out here?"

Crowley glanced away. He sucked his lips into his mouth, he shuffled his feet. "Look, there's no easy way to say this," Crowley said. Aziraphale watched him, still frozen. Crowley's shoulders shrugged up. "I'm leaving London."

Aziraphale fell silent for a long moment. He was stuck somewhere between 'Pardon me?', 'I see' and 'What in Hell's name are you talking about?' but none of them made it past the rock that had begun to form in his throat. He couldn't begin to fathom what had prompted this, but he knew this was so _un-Crowley_ that it nearly felt like he was speaking to someone else altogether. Which wouldn't be impossible, of course, except this _was_ Crowley, Aziraphale was certain of it.

"I- Wh- _Why_?" Aziraphale finally forced out. "Has something happened?" Aside from the obvious, he thought, but the idea of Crowley leaving because of their new relationship shift hurt him so deeply and profoundly that he refused to consider it.

"Look," Crowley began, but it looked as though he, too, was struggling to find words, "I'm done with London. Time to move on. I'm bored, angel."

"Bored?" Aziraphale repeated the word as though it were offensive. "Of _London_? But you love it here!"

"I don't- I don't." Crowley's hands were still deep in his pockets, and only now did Aziraphale realize they were balled into tight fists. "I called you here to tell you, not to debate it. I'm leaving tonight. Just thought I'd say toodle-oo. I owe you that much."

So many thoughts and emotions were bouncing off each other in Aziraphale's consciousness he wasn't sure which way was up. What was this? Why was Crowley saying these things now, right after…?

"Well, I'll go with you, then." Aziraphale blurted out with a hopeful smile. He meant it, of course, but he hadn't exactly meant to say it. Crowley's head turned his way so fast it was as if he'd been slapped, staring at Aziraphale with a flicker of - was that fondness? No, it was sadness. For a split second, Aziraphale could almost feel Crowley's despair as if it were something tangible that he could reach out and touch. It was gone just as quickly, but Aziraphale pressed on, getting just a little bit desperate to put an end to this, whatever it was.

"I could close the bookshop for a while. We can go wherever you like. It'll be like we're on holiday!"

Crowley took another step back. Aziraphale's smile faded.

"It was a mistake," Crowley said firmly. "We took it too far. I- _I_ took it too far. It's time to say goodbye."

Every single thought in Aziraphale's head screamed _this can't be real_ all at once. Crowley would never say this. He would never- _Especially_ after-

"But…" Aziraphale paused to keep his voice from wobbling. "But you said-"

"Demons lie, remember?" Crowley snapped. "It's what we do."

Aziraphale's heart sank and he felt tears prick behind his eyes. He'd said that in jest, it was part of their playful banter… Had Crowley thought he meant it? Had he taken it as a slight against his character?

"Crowley-"

"That's _all_ , angel. I didn't want it to end this way, but, well. All things end, anyway." Crowley cleared his throat. He couldn't look at Aziraphale at all. "Goodbye."

Aziraphale had never once known the feeling of being 'sick to your stomach' until today, but right now that's all he could feel. Sick. In the stomach, in the head, in the heart, in the soul, everywhere. It was like the world was ending all over again. As Crowley turned to walk away, Aziraphale's stuttering mind grabbed the first stray inquiry it could find.

"Your plants," he choked out. Crowley stopped but did not turn around. "You cared about them, at least? You must have. What will become of them…?"

"They'll rot," Crowley answered him icily. His voice sounded rough. "Water them if you like, makes no difference to me."

And he walked away. Just like that.

Never in their six-thousand year association had either of them ever said goodbye with such finality, such harsh nonchalance. As Aziraphale watched Crowley's retreating back, he wanted to run after him, wanted to stop him and beg him to tell him what was really going on. But he didn't.

All he could think about was how much everything _hurt_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ..... D:
> 
> Things won't stay quite so bleak for long, I promise! Look forward to some fluff, apologies and snake!Crowley in the next chapter~
> 
> Sooooo I couldn’t help myself and now my ‘smut with feelings’ fic is becoming a series! I honestly don’t know how long the series will be - possibly just three fics in total - but it could very well exceed that, depending. This particular fic is all planned out, but I’m kinda flirting with the idea of taking prompts for future chapters/fics! What do you guys want to see??? What direction do you want things to go??? Give me all the ideas!


	2. Chapter 2

Aziraphale wasn't one for moping, really. He wasn't easily troubled so long as he was being left to his own devices and the world wasn't in danger of ending, but he realized now - and only now - that he owed much of his constant ease to Crowley. Even if Crowley wasn't _physically_ there, he wasn't far. Even when he _was_ far, he was still around. They were friends. They made time for each other. Even if they hadn't seen each other in years, the promise of lunch or a night of drinking and conversation was always just around the corner. Always.

Now, however, it seemed Crowley was gone. He was _somewhere_ , obviously, but something was different. No more lunches, no more drinks, no more long walks or stargazing or driving together in the Bentley or- well. No more "them". Whatever their relationship had been recently building to, there was no more of that, either.

Aziraphale hadn't gone anywhere near his bedroom in days. He couldn't. The blasted room only existed because of Crowley, because he'd gone on about naps and things and Aziraphale had spent a few good long weeks panicking. And before he knew it Crowley was very close to him, doing all kind of things with his mouth and telling him just how deeply he cared about him, and then Aziraphale's soul was _singing_ with barely contained joy and love and he realized all at once that Crowley truly meant more to him than the Heaven or the Earth.

And now he was here, alone, with Crowley nowhere to be found, and he didn't quite know what to do with himself. He'd gone looking for Crowley, of course. The day after their tragically short conversation in the park, Aziraphale went to Crowley's flat to see if perhaps it had all been some kind of awful joke, but no one answered. The Bentley was gone. He'd tried again two days later, feeling a little bit pathetic now, but there was still no answer, still no Bentley.

It wasn't just that. The flat 'felt' abandoned. The air around the door was heavy and tense, strong enough to make the metaphysical tips of Aziraphale's wings curl.

Aziraphale sat down at his desk, contemplating doing some light reading although he knew there was little chance he could focus on any one thing long enough to do so. The pain was more than he'd ever known, and he wasn't certain how to compartmentalize it all. Ever since meeting with Crowley in the park days ago it felt like he was splitting apart, as if he were in a constant state of discorperation but never _quite_ getting there. This horrible, wrenching pain was only slightly alleviated by the fact that Aziraphale was fairly certain there was something more to all this than met the eye.

The biggest clue was, well, _everything_. Aziraphale had known Crowley since the dawn of humanity. Some might argue that he and Crowley had _invented_ friendship. He knew Crowley, inside and out, and whether or not they'd had a recent change in their association he was quite sure Crowley wouldn't simply call it quits just because he'd gotten cold feet about the whole thing. It was _Aziraphale_ who had been the oblivious one, he'd been the one unknowingly denying Crowley for so long; it made little sense for Crowley to leave once he'd finally gotten Aziraphale to _listen_. Their entire conversation in the park felt off, like Crowley was reading from a script.

That was all, though. Aziraphale couldn't understand anything beyond that. If there was something nefarious going on, why couldn't Crowley just _tell him_ about it? Why the charade, and why so soon after they- after-

And this was the horrible circle Aziraphale found himself in. Pain to sadness to skepticism and then back to pain again.

It was during one of his many skepticism phases that Aziraphale recalled the tail-end of their exchange in the park, the part that he'd admittedly been trying to forget since it involved Crowley walking away from him, never once looking back. Aziraphale had clumsily inquired about Crowley's plants, scrambling for one single other topic that might convince Crowley to stay.

 _They'll rot. Water them if you like, makes no difference to me_.

What an odd thing to say. If it makes no difference, why suggest that Aziraphale should water them? Was he trying to act nonchalant for appearances, but he actually hoped Aziraphale would look after his plants so they didn't die? Or was there something more to gleam from that seemingly throwaway line?

Although it felt a little bit demeaning after he'd already gone to Crowley's flat twice in the last week, Aziraphale refused to let it all go so easily. He closed up shop and took a cab to his building first thing in the morning. If there really was something going on - and he truly, genuinely hoped there was - perhaps the answer was in his flat.

Or maybe Crowley just wanted someone to water his plants after leaving forever.

When Aziraphale arrived nervously in front of Crowley's door he was once again hit with the thick, upsetting feeling of _gone, gone, gone_ that nearly repelled him on the spot the first two visits, but this time he stole a deep breath in through his nose and pushed the door open.

The oppressive feeling grew stronger and more suffocating as soon as Aziraphale stepped through the doorway. It was terribly quiet. You could hear a pin drop, certainly, and Aziraphale watched a cloud of tiny dust particles sparkle against the light beaming in through the windows, drifting serenely through the air, searching for places to settle and begin to accumulate. The thought of it made Aziraphale so sad he nearly felt he could cry.

Poking around seemed wrong and vaguely creepy. Then again, Aziraphale couldn't be sure that Crowley hadn't _wanted_ him to poke around, hadn't downright demanded it in his own roundabout way, but the fact was there wasn't much in terms of poking around to begin with. Crowley didn't have shelves or boxes or notebooks or old antique trunks to investigate, nowhere to hide some kind of message even if he wanted to. His desk was the only clear suspect, but aside from a couple astronomy books, it was barren. Crowley once mentioned a secret safe behind his framed sketch of the Mona Lisa, but Aziraphale wasn't sure how he felt about breaking into a safe. Perhaps he'd give it a go if he got truly desperate. For now, however, Aziraphale was beginning to feel like he'd come here for nothing.

He turned and eyed the next room, catching the big, lush foliage that spilled invitingly into the doorway. Well, not for nothing, then. Since he was here, he may as well water the poor things.

Aziraphale stepped into the plant room, looking around for a spray bottle or a watering can. The various plants almost seemed to perk up at the sight of him, bending their leaves toward him curiously. He spied a spray bottle full of water sitting on a small table beside some of the taller fronds and picked it up, giving it a test spray into the air to be sure he knew how to work it. He then turned it on the plants, hoping he was giving each one the proper amount of water.

"You're all very lovely," Aziraphale murmured kindly as he went along, spraying here and there. Sometimes the leaves would extend out in a silent plea for more water, and Aziraphale would give them a few generous spritzes until they pulled back, satisfied. "It seems such a shame that Crowley left you all here. How could he? You've all grown so beautifully for him, haven't you? And yet he left you here alone." Aziraphale lowered the bottle, his eyes finding the floor. _Crowley left_. Warm wetness gathered behind Aziraphale's eyes as it all really hit him, the reality of it, the feeling of abandonment that still hung heavy in the air, the lack of secret messages neatly explaining the situation. Before he knew it Aziraphale was sinking to the floor and pulling his knees to his chest, the spray bottle hanging loosely in his hand. He pressed his forehead into his arms as the desperation washed over him, ripping at his essence until he felt raw inside.

"He's really gone, isn't he?" Aziraphale squeaked out, wishing he knew how to stop the moisture that had begun to ceaselessly pool in his eyes. He truly didn't know what to do now, didn't know what his life was meant to be like without Crowley in it. He just wanted to understand. To apologize, if need be, whatever it took to bring Crowley back.

Something was tickling the top of his head. Aziraphale tried to pull himself together and glanced up to find one of the larger plants shaking and waving at him persistently.

"Ah- I'm sorry, lovelies, I know you want more water." He wiped at his eyes. "I- I just need a moment to-"

It was then that Aziraphale noticed the flash of white sticking up out of the plant's soil. Aziraphale frowned and shuffled forward, taking hold of the bit of white between the tips of his finger and thumb, slowly pulling it out. The plant finally stopped shaking about and slumped in relief.

Aziraphale's eyes went wide and he scrambled to his feet, dropping the spray bottle in his haste. It was a small, rolled up scrap of paper. With shaking hands he wiped off some of the soil and unfurled it. A moment later he crumpled it in his hand, his breath catching in his throat, his sadness evaporating with a silent ' _a-ha!_ ' as a whole new sort of concern bloomed within him. He shoved the crumpled up note into his waistcoat pocket, mumbled a frantic 'sorry, very sorry, I'll be back soon I promise, you are all really very lovely', and rushed out of the flat without another word. He suddenly had quite a lot of things to do, all thanks to four words scribbled hastily on a small scrap of dirty paper.

**MICHAEL KNOWS. IM SORRY.**

.

.

.

Crowley loved South America. The people, the densely packed cities, the incredible architecture, the food. And on the other side of the spectrum; the humidity, the jungles, the wetlands. It made him feel cozy and comfortable and had him itching to be slithering on his belly again. It was too bad, then, that he wasn't visiting under better circumstances.

Currently, Crowley was in Ecuador, hiding just on the outskirts of one of Montaňita's most popular beaches. It wasn't very popular tonight, though. There'd been a good, long storm earlier in the day, chasing off locals and tourists alike, and now it was too dark and damp to get much enjoyment out of the softly churning waves. Two figures seemed undeterred by both the darkness and the cold wet sand and were speaking quietly to each other near Crowley's position in the brush. Crowley would have been noticed by them, surely, were he not coiled tightly in a ball of glittering black scales, practically invisible against the black earth and green foliage. Crowley's unblinking gaze watched the pair, listening, catching every word they were saying.

They weren't saying much.

Temptation this, souls for our master that. Typical demonic small talk, nothing of note. Crowley's tongue flicked out to taste the humid air. What exactly was Michael playing at? What kind of terribly important 'intel' was she hoping for? It took everything in Crowley not to hiss out of sheer frustration. He'd been blackmailed, forced to break Aziraphale's metaphorical heart, and for what? To listen to a couple of low-ranking demons prattle on about car theft and drug smuggling?

Crowley coiled more tightly into himself. He could still see the stricken look on Aziraphale's face, could still hear his uneven and vaguely tearful voice. The sights and sounds and even the _smells_ of that day were burned into Crowley's memory, as vivid and as tangible as the horrible day it had happened. The only thing that gave Crowley any comfort was the possibility that Aziraphale had found his note, so that he could at least know Crowley hadn't meant any of what he said. It didn't make their parting any easier, of course, but it was better than thinking Crowley hated him.

It had been almost three months since Michael showed up at his flat.

" _Let me get this right," Crowley hissed. "In exchange for not telling the other angels about our little switch, you want me to… do odd jobs for you?"_

_"More or less," Michael said, glancing distractedly at her fingernails as if she'd only just noticed them. "Mostly, I'd be sending you to gather intel for me, whenever and wherever I please. It's only fair, considering you obliterated my previous contact down below."_

_Crowley's face screwed in disbelief. "Ligur?" he nearly laughed. "He was working for you?"_

_"Not exclusively for me, no. But he took no issue doing occasional favors for an angel so long as there were rewards involved. You, on the other hand, are being blackmailed. Your reward is your continued existence."_

_Crowley fell silent. His mind whirled with the implications, the gravity of what Michael was suggesting. He would be doing an angel's dirty work, presumably, in exchange for keeping Aziraphale safe. And himself safe, of course, but right now his own fate was an afterthought. It seemed easy enough on the surface, but Crowley got the feeling that whatever 'work' an angel was keen to pass off to a demon was something he wouldn't enjoy doing, either._

" _How do I know you'll keep your end of the deal?" Crowley growled. "How do I know Aziraphale will be safe?"_

_"I'm an angel," Michael purred, her hands coming together in mock-prayer. "But if that isn't enough to convince you, I suppose I can provide you with photos from the Earth Observation Files every now and again. In the end, though, you don't have much of a choice, do you?"_

_Crowley's throat suddenly felt like it was stuffed full of rocks. He managed to swallow most of them down before attempting to voice his next pointless inquiry. "You want me to leave him." It was less of a question and more of an assumption, really. Michael arched a brow. Crowley cleared his throat nervously, realizing the implications of his phrasing. "Leave him alone, I mean."_

" _Don't bother trying to cover up your lecherous relationship," Michael said airily. "I'm fully aware that the two of you have engaged in- in mortal carnal sin. Regardless of Aziraphale's current status up above, I simply can't allow such a blatant deviation of natural order to persist. If anyone on your side ever caught wind, we would never hear the end of it."_

" _Don't you talk about it like it's some- some sick thing, something wrong or disturbing," Crowley hissed, his eyes blazing. "You don't know the first thing about us, about what we've got together."_

_Michael smiled pleasantly. "And I thank the Almighty for that," she said. "Yes, you will be leaving Aziraphale. Tomorrow. This is one of the stipulations of our deal. I will keep your secret and prevent any other angel from uncovering it, thus keeping both you and Aziraphale safe from a fate worse than death, and in exchange you will become my personal agent, doing anything and everything I require. And I require you to leave Aziraphale and never speak to him ever again."_

_Crowley knew it would come to that, of course, but hearing it didn't hurt any less. The idea of never seeing Aziraphale again almost made Crowley want to beg Michael to miracle up another bathtub of holy water, but this wasn't just about him. He needed to protect Aziraphale. If the other angels found out about this - the switch or the fact that one of their angels was screwing a demon - Aziraphale was doomed._

_"I want Aziraphale_ untouchable _." Crowley said. He punctuated the last word with a violent shake of his wings. "You all leave him alone forever, let him have his bookshop and his life on Earth. Agreed?"_

_Michael raised a hand to where her heart would have been, had she one. "I give you my word."_

_Crowley's wings lowered. Then he put them away. There was no point posturing anymore, not when he'd essentially agreed to becoming Michael's errand boy for all eternity._

" _Can I at least say goodbye to him? Break it off properly?" Crowley asked, embarrassed at the sudden roughness of his voice. "He'll get suspicious if I just up and disappear."_

_Michael smiled in a way that made Crowley sorry for having brought it up._

" _I was hoping you'd ask."_

So now Crowley was without Aziraphale, without a place to call home, and without freedom. He'd never had _total_ freedom, of course, not the way many humans had, but Hell never cared what he did so long as he checked in every now and again and his memos were convincing. Now, what with this new 'arrangement', Michael had him firmly under her thumb. The only time-off he had was between these silly jobs - which was loads of time, honestly, but it still gave him the awful sensation of being perpetually 'on call' - and practically all of that time was being spent thinking about Aziraphale. About how much he missed him, how much he wished he could see him again.

Here he was, curled up in a ball on a beach in Ecuador listening to two demons wrap up their sorry conversation about all the bad deeds they'd done for the day. As the demons bid each other farewell and went their separate ways - one of them vanishing into thin air while the other was swallowed up by the Earth itself - Crowley let out a long sigh. Or at least, the closest to a sigh that a snake could get. He should report back to Michael, he supposed, but he didn't very much feel like being prompt. Crowley's body slowly unfurled and he stretched out to his full length. He yawned, adjusting his jaw, and started off in a slow, methodical slither, feeling the cool soil pass under his scales. It was calming, existing like this. He hadn't had many reasons to take snake form over the last few centuries - too comfortable with his human body, perhaps - but now it felt like a small comfort. It took him back to a time before things had really kicked off, before he'd fallen head-over-tail in love with an angel who gave away his flaming sword out of concern for a pair of silly humans.

An angel he was never going to see again.

Crowley stopped slithering, his long body going tense. Something in the air had changed, shifted. Crowley's tongue emerged again; there was something like electricity in the air, potent and fizzling, and another subtle scent - almost entirely overpowered by the first - that was terribly familiar. Before Crowley could think any more on the smell, he felt a presence. It was coming closer, moving with purpose, and Crowley's head whipped around just in time to catch a shadowy figure standing behind him, stepping into the brush.

Moving purely on instinct Crowley's upper body raised to a terrifying height and he lunged, fangs bared, a powerful hiss in his throat. His 'attacker' yelped in surprise, eyes blown wide as he stumbled back, losing his balance and falling out of the brush and into the sand. Crowley landed on top of him, tongue flicking at the air rapidly as he stared down at the well-dressed man he'd just tackled onto the beach.

"A-Aziraphale?" Crowley hissed, breathless, his expressionless snake face somehow expressing quite a bit. Aziraphale blinked up at him, chest rising and falling hard and fast from the shock. His features softened into a look of pure relief, the color returning to his ashen face.

"Crowley," Aziraphale breathed, a smile tugging at his mouth. " _Crowley_! Oh thank goodness I found you, I knew you were somewhere around here, I was sure my calculations were correct, but I couldn't seem to find you! Obviously now, I see why."

Crowley couldn't find words. He nearly felt like this couldn't be real, it was some kind of cruel prank or- or a test, perhaps, orchestrated by Michael, but he knew it wasn't. It smelled like Aziraphale, it felt like Aziraphale, and his eyes; you couldn't fabricate Aziraphale's eyes. No angel in Heaven could hope to imitate the pure love and joy and heartfelt relief that shone out through Aziraphale's eyes like beacons.

"It'ssss really you," Crowley said, faintly, too shocked to consider how heavy an eight-foot long snake must be draped over a person's body or how alarming this strange picture might have looked to a passerby. "You're here."

Aziraphale smiled softly and smoothed his hand over Crowley's scaly head and down his neck with such tender fondness that Crowley felt compelled to thank God for not gifting snakes with tear ducts. "I'm here," he said. "Hello, my dear."

Crowley lowered his head and slithered up into the crook of Aziraphale's neck, feeling a million things all at once, not sure where to put any of it yet but content for the moment to get as close to his angel as he possibly could. He felt Aziraphale's arms wrap around his long body, holding him close, and Crowley couldn't stop his lower half and tail from wrapping around Aziraphale's waist and legs, hugging him in turn.

They stayed that way until Crowley realized how much better it might feel to hold Aziraphale with arms and hands and fingers. Slowly he transformed back, arms growing into place around Aziraphale's shoulders, legs straddling Aziraphale's waist. His face - the face that _did_ have tear ducts and all kinds of expressions - was pressed into Aziraphale's shoulder, and now that he had proper lips he made sure to press a shaking kiss to his angel's neck, and then another, and another.

"I'm sorry," Crowley muttered miserably, "I'm so sorry for what I said. I didn't mean a bit of it. I-"

"Shhh, Crowley, it's alright. I know you didn't, of course. I don't think I truly believed any of it for a moment."

"Really?"

"Well. I, ah, might have been fooled for a _fraction_ of a moment. Perhaps."

Crowley pulled away to look into Aziraphale's eyes again. A reminder that he was really there. "You got my note."

"I did," Aziraphale nodded. "About a week after you left. I'm sorry it's taken me so long to find you."

Crowley froze. His face fell, the euphoria fleeing him once the realization of what was happening hit him. "Wait- Wait." Crowley released his hold on Aziraphale and scrambled away from him, jumping to his feet, boots shuffling backward through the wet sand. Aziraphale's face lit up in concern and he carefully rose to his feet, brushing off his coat and trousers. "You can't be here, angel. You can't- no, _shit_ , you can't be here! You have no idea what's going on, if she catches me with you-"

"Crowley!" Aziraphale's hands were raised in a gesture of calm. "I'm not a fool, my dear. Why do you think it's taken me so long to meet with you?" Crowley's mouth snapped shut, baffled, allowing Aziraphale to calmly continue. "Since the moment I found your note, I've been trying to find out as much as I could about whatever Michael's up to. It wasn't easy considering I'm not entirely welcome in Heaven at the moment, but I was finally able to track your location and find some sort of pattern in your jumps all over Earth. When I looked in on you-"

"Looked in?" Crowley repeated in a way that demanded clarification.

"A bit of light scrying," Aziraphale explained.

"That's very old-school of you," Crowley remarked.

"I was going for covert, my dear. Ancient magic doesn't raise many alarms, you know."

"Oh, yeah. Smart."

"Anyway, when I looked in, I caught you chatting with Michael on the phone and I realized what sort of things she had you doing. I thought that if she had you spying on demons, she most likely wasn't checking in while you were doing the actual- well, the spying bit, or else what's the point of getting a demon to spy for you? So I thought I'd catch you while you were working, so to speak, when she might not have her eye on you."

"We don't know she isn't watching," Crowley said seriously.

"I know that. Which is why I also miracled us a bit of privacy. For the next few minutes, if Michael checks in, she'll be looking at the other end of the beach."

Crowley's entire body slumped in relief. Now that he knew it was safe, at least for the next few minutes, he closed off the terrible distance between them and pulled Aziraphale into another hug, a proper one this time. Aziraphale's breath stuttered and he gripped Crowley tightly; Crowley could tell he was trying hard not to tremble, which did all kinds of terrible things to Crowley's soul. Crowley breathed him in, allowing himself to forget about the world outside of this particular embrace for just a small moment, memorizing the way Aziraphale's chest rose and fell with small breaths, the feeling of his skin against Crowley's cheek.

"Oh, my dear," Aziraphale's voice was muffled in Crowley's shoulder, sounding a little bit tearful, "I've missed you."

"Me too," Crowley said. "You have no bloody idea."

"I rather think I do," Aziraphale answered sadly. "But… I can't imagine what you've been through."

Crowley held him a little tighter. "What do you know?"

"Not much, unfortunately. I was hoping you could illuminate me."

Crowley pulled away just enough to rest their foreheads together. He held the back of Aziraphale's head gently, fingers sliding through soft curly hair. "How much time have we got?"

Aziraphale rested his hands over Crowley's chest. "I don't know for certain, but I'm estimating five minutes, to be safe."

"Oh, I- Five minutes? Five minutes isn't enough."

"Not enough to tell me everything? Be quick, then."

Crowley gently shook his head. "No, it's- it's not enough to see you. I don't think I can say goodbye again so quick."

Aziraphale leaned back just to level Crowley a telling look. "This isn't goodbye, for goodness sake," he said firmly. "I need you to tell me what's going on so I can find you a way out of this! Now stop wasting valuable time and tell me what Michael is doing."

Crowley swallowed his doubt and told Aziraphale everything. At some point they'd pulled apart, connected only by their hands, gripping each other tightly as if they were preparing to take a leap. When Crowley finished, Aziraphale's eyes were wide and his lips were pressed tightly together.

"When you said 'Michael knows', you weren't exaggerating," he almost whispered. "She knows… well, _everything_."

"Yeah. So you can see why it'd be bad for her to catch us together. If I break our deal, she'll be off to tell Gabriel about our switch, and then we are well and truly fucked. For real this time."

Aziraphale was too absorbed in his thoughts to frown disapprovingly at Crowley's language. His fingers curled more tightly around Crowley's. "Well, at least it's about as bad as I thought it was," he said faintly. "What a disaster."

"Any brilliant plans?" Crowley asked hopefully.

Aziraphale's lips disappeared into his mouth. He stared at the sand as if he were counting the grains, brow screwed in thought. After a moment, he glanced back to Crowley with an apologetic grimace. "Not- not yet. I need to look into this. But I swear, I _will_ think of something. I will get you out of this."

Crowley's chest tightened. He offered Aziraphale a sad but appreciative smile. "Angel, I don't think there's a way out of this one."

"I refuse to believe that."

"Okay, but, just… listen." Crowley pulled Aziraphale's hands to his lips, laying a kiss to his knuckles. "If I step out of line, that's it. It's all over. Michael will tell the others and everyone will know we fooled them. You'll be walking into hellfire. Or worse. I can't take that chance, I just can't."

Aziraphale looked as though he'd been slapped. "Well _I_ can't just accept that we'll never see each other again!" he exclaimed. "I realize the risks, Crowley, and let me tell you I'm not thrilled with the idea of you being dropped into a bathtub of holy water, either! I won't let that happen. I _will_ find us a way out of this. Neither of us are going to be destroyed."

"Angel-"

"This isn't your burden to bear alone," Aziraphale asserted. He shook Crowley's hands firmly. "We're on our own side. _You_ said that, and although it took me a while to come to terms with it, I know you were right. We've been together for six-thousand years. I am not letting some pretentious archangel pull us apart without a fight."

Crowley had never wanted to kiss Aziraphale more. And so he did, he pulled him in and pressed their mouths together, holding Aziraphale's face tenderly in his hands. Aziraphale's hands fisted in Crowley's jacket and he leaned into it with a desperation that was still so breathtakingly new to the both of them, kissing Crowley as though this kiss might be their last. That was the trouble, and they both knew it. Despite Aziraphale's adamance to the contrary, it was very possible this was the last time they would see each other. They were playing a dangerous game now, but after everything they'd been through, everything that had happened, it would be an affront to their friendship not to fight for it. It was worth fighting for, certainly.

They parted, just barely, practically sharing in each other's soft, shuddering breaths. Crowley's thumb traced gently over Aziraphale's bottom lip. "Snogging on the beach. How cliche."

"Mm. Practically Hollywood."

"Nothing I can say that'll change your mind about this, is there?"

"Not a bit, my dear."

Crowley sighed. He shut his eyes and rested their foreheads together again. It put him at ease, the closeness, the simple intimacy that they'd so long denied themselves. "Alright. _Be careful_ , angel. Don't let anyone know what you're up to."

"Of course not."

"What will you do?" Crowley asked. "What should _I_ do?"

"I have no idea," Aziraphale sighed. "I have a couple ideas of where to start. As for you… Just stay on Michael's good side. Make note of anything unusual, or anything we might be able to use as leverage against her. Act miserable and put-upon."

"Yeah, that won't be a problem."

"We're almost out of time," Aziraphale said heavily. He pulled away, stepping back closer to the shoreline. Crowley had never seen Aziraphale cry before, but even in the darkness Crowley caught the moisture gathering at Aziraphale's bottom lashes. "I promise I'll try and report back just as soon as I can."

"Yeah, you- yeah. Watch your back, angel."

"And you," Aziraphale answered with a strained smile. He fell silent, looking down at his shoes for a moment, his hands fidgeting at his waist. "You promised you would bring some plants over, you know," he finally said, and Crowley could tell from the tightness of his voice just how near to tears he really was. "To brighten up my new bedroom, and- and to stick around some sunny spots in the shop. I'm holding you to that."

Crowley grinned. "Why stop there?" he asked. Aziraphale glanced up, his eyes wet and red around the edges. "Let's move in together, angel."

Aziraphale blinked, his chest swelling with a breath that he let out as a careful, shaky sigh. "Y-yes, that would be nice."

Crowley's own traitorous throat felt like it was trying to strangle him. "Why not, right? I don't have much, really, all I'd need is an afternoon to move in. My plants, couple of chairs, some books."

"I thought you didn't read."

"I look at the pictures."

Aziraphale chuckled tearfully. "That sounds wonderful, my dear. It really does."

Crowley breathed in deeply through his nose. "How much time." It was barely a question. More of a demand.

"Thirty seconds, roughly."

It was stupid, it was risky, but neither of them were terribly concerned with the danger of the situation just at the moment when both of them were so uncomfortably weary and heartbroken. Crowley reached Aziraphale first simply because his strides were longer, but nevertheless they rushed into each other's arms, hugging each other fiercely. If their first embrace minutes ago had been 'hello', this embrace was fueled by the sinking despair of 'goodbye', which were two very different sorts of embraces by nature. To prove it Aziraphale was sobbing quietly into Crowley's shoulder as Crowley viciously fought back tears of his own - not altogether successfully - hugging Aziraphale so tightly he might have bruised him were either of them bruisable.

"We _will_ see each other again," Crowley muttered into Aziraphale's hair. He needed to say it as much as Aziraphale needed to hear it. "We'll figure something out. We always do."

"Yes, o-of course." Aziraphale's hold on him intensified. "I love you, my dear," he professed softly, so softly Crowley might not have caught it if he hadn't been paying such close attention. Before he could even think to respond Aziraphale was gone. Crowley's arms folded around thin air and he wobbled with the sudden loss, his breath stilled in his throat.

Above him, distant thunder rumbled faintly and the sky flickered with the threat of another storm. Crowley's snake tongue flicked out, tasting the air. He could smell the oncoming storm, the changing wind, could feel tiny raindrops tapping against his scales. Crowley's long body paved a path through the sand, disappearing into the brush, heading toward the nearby cliffs to take shelter.

Crowley really was very grateful snakes didn't have tear ducts. He wasn't big on crying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope ya'll like pain, cause the pain train doesn't stop here! ~~can I get a wahoo~~
> 
> I'm ostrich-cakes on Tumblr if you want to drop by and say hello!


	3. Chapter 3

As much as Aziraphale complained about Crowley's speeding, he had to admit that the drive to Tadfield would have been much quicker if Crowley were behind the wheel. That was rather the point of his visit, though, which was still a fact that was causing Aziraphale disproportionate amounts of worry and pain and helplessness. _Oh_ the damned helplessness. It burned Aziraphale from the inside out, it made him restless and quick to irritation, and not even the pleasantly crisp April breeze blowing through Lower Tadfield could take his mind off of the severity of their situation.

Well, it was hardly _his_ situation. Crowley was the one being threatened, blackmailed and forced into demonic servitude while Aziraphale still got to enjoy his books and his tea and his life in Soho. Not that he was enjoying any of that, presently. He refused to enjoy anything on principal.

Aziraphale idly watched the taxi drive away down the dusty road, watching until it turned the corner. He shifted his gaze to his destination, the cottage nestled comfortably within a circle of well-kept shrubs and trees that were struggling to fill their branches after the most unforgiving winter Tadfield had seen in eleven years. It looked exactly the same as the last time he'd seen it, when he and Crowley gave an American woman a ride after striking her with their car, an American woman who had the world's only copy of _The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter_ , an American woman who days later helped them thwart the Apocalypse.

Aziraphale opened the little gate, making his way up the path to the cottage door. He breathed deeply and smoothed down the front of his jacket before raising a hand to knock. Before his knuckles could connect with the painted wood the door swung open and Aziraphale found himself staring wide-eyed at Anathema Device, who was staring wide-eyed back at him, her expression steely.

"Aziraphale." Though it was meant to be a greeting her tone weighed heavy with suspicion. Aziraphale could feel the stress radiating off of her in waves.

"Ah! You remembered," Aziraphale answered pleasantly. "I apologize for dropping in on you like this, but it is nice to see you again."

Anathema glanced around them, behind Aziraphale, at the road, at the sky, and then back at Aziraphale again. She leaned in conspiratorially. "Is there some kind of new catastrophe? Anything vaguely apocalyptic?"

Aziraphale blinked. "I rather hope not. I haven't the time nor the patience."

Anathema relaxed, her shoulders slumping. She loosened her grip on the door - so savage her knuckles had turned bone-white - to lean against it. "Sorry, I- I never expected to see you again, is all. I thought maybe if you were suddenly turning up…"

"...that chaos wasn't far behind, yes I understand," Aziraphale offered an apologetic smile, hand fidgeting with the chain of his pocket watch. "May I, ah, come in?"

"Oh! Oh of course, yes," Anathema stepped back to allow Aziraphale inside, glancing behind him again. "Crowley isn't with you?"

Aziraphale faltered on his way through the door. Anathema's eyes shifted back to him in sudden concern.

"That's… why I'm here, actually," he said. "I'm afraid I didn't have anywhere else to turn."

Anathema closed the door behind them and turned back to her guest, her expression tight with worry. She slipped a hand over Aziraphale's shoulder and gently guided him into the kitchen. "Please, come in. Tell me what happened."

.

.

.

Over the next few minutes, many things happened. Ever the good hostess, Anathema started making tea as Aziraphale began explaining the how and the why of his visit. Shortly after this, Newton Pulsifer returned from a shopping trip, standing befuddled in the doorway with two bags of shopping in his arms. When he'd been sufficiently convinced that the world was not in danger of ending, he took over the tea business so that Anathema could sit down, shopping bags put off to the side. Both Anathema and Newt listened intently as Aziraphale explained the situation as best he could. When he was about halfway through his story - somewhere around the part where he'd found the mysterious note stashed in Crowley's planter - Newt cleared his throat awkwardly, standing beside the table with two steaming cups of tea in his hands.

"Sorry," Newt said feebly, "just to be clear, we're talking about real angels here, yes? And- and demons? Crowley is a... demon, a real demon, and you- you-"

"Am an angel, yes," Aziraphale nodded, taking the offered cup from Newt's slightly wobbling hand. "I mentioned something to that effect when we met at the airbase, but I suppose that was another reality."

"You never _really_ said you were an _angel_ ," Anathema pointed out, though she didn't seem nearly as surprised by the news. "Not explicitly."

"It was implied," Aziraphale countered. "Anyway, after I'd read Crowley's note, I realized that Michael must have blackmailed him to leave London."

"Michael," Newt interjected again, now holding a third cup, face ashen, "the _archangel_ Michael, as in, from the bible."

Anathema grabbed Newt's hand and offered him a patient smile. "Let's let Aziraphale finish, shall we? We can deal with your crisis of faith later."

And so Aziraphale continued, recounting everything from his months of careful scrying to his meeting with Crowley on the beaches of Montaňita, strategically omitting the more emotional, intimate details, of course. When he was finished, Anathema and Newt traded a look before turning back to Aziraphale, both of them looking about as helpless as Aziraphale felt.

"That… sounds terrible," Anathema said, "and I'd love to help however I can. Though…" she glanced back at Newt, worrying her bottom lip.

"I'm not sure what _we_ could possibly do to help," Newt finished for her. "This sounds… uhm, big. Not- not end-of-the-world big, I know, but we're only human, after all."

Aziraphale held his cup between his hands, finding some comfort in the warmth bleeding through the ceramic. "Quite right. You were jolly helpful when the world was ending, but I wouldn't expect a human to meddle in Heavenly affairs with any semblance of success."

Anathema watched Aziraphale thoughtfully. For a human, Anathema was terribly intense to be around. Not in an altogether unpleasant way, it was just that her eyes had a way of reaching under the surface of whatever she was looking at with a focus and understanding that few humans possessed. Her witchy upbringing probably had something to do with it - humans with knowledge of the arcane almost always had a heightened awareness of the unknown - but Aziraphale also felt a little something else when he was around her, as if her potential had yet to be tapped, bubbling just under her bronze skin.

"Tell us what we can do to help," Anathema said, staring at Aziraphale in a way that suggested she'd worked out all the intimate details that Aziraphale had tactfully omitted.

"Well, I was hoping you would allow me to take another peep at your book," Aziraphale answered hopefully. " _The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter_. I read it rather thoroughly when it was briefly in my possession so I know there's little chance there's anything there that could help, but since I never anticipated _this_ would happen, I might have missed something vital."

Anathema's face fell. Her smile suddenly seemed rather forced. "Yes, of course you can."

Aziraphale's stomach flopped in concern. "If- if you'd rather I didn't-"

"No, no it isn't that." Anathema sighed, holding her head in her hands. "Oh, _God_."

"What is it?" Aziraphale looked between Anathema and Newt, his concern mounting. "What's wrong?"

Newt placed a supportive hand on Anathema's shoulder. Anathema shook her head, her gaze raising to offer Aziraphale a grimace. "There were more," she said miserably.

"More?"

"More prophecies," Anathema clarified. "They arrived shortly after you and Crowley went back to London. And we- I- burned them." Her face disappeared behind her hands. "Oh I knew it, I knew we shouldn't have done that! What if Agnes had the answer?"

Aziraphale tried to set aside the visceral feeling of _utter horror_ that immediately gripped him at the idea of a first-and-only manuscript of prophecies by Agnes Nutter being _set aflame_ in favor of comforting his very distraught acquaintance. He set down his tea and extended a hand across the table, to what purpose, he wasn't certain. "Oh, oh my dear, I- I'm terribly sorry, I didn't mean to make you doubt yourself. I'm sure you had a very good reason for doing what you did."

"She did have a good reason," Newt said with unshakable affirmation, still with his hand on Anathema's shoulder. "A very good reason. She couldn't just live in her ancestors shadow anymore, it wasn't right. And if Agnes was really so prophetic, she probably would have, you know, 'seen' that herself."

"You know, that's a rather good point," Aziraphale agreed thoughtfully. "If Agnes could predict that my coffee had gone cold, I'm sure she easily predicted you were going to burn her manuscript. It's likely all that was written on each page was the order in which they were to be burned."

Anathema's hands slowly unveiled her face, her expression alight in consideration. "That... actually makes _sense_. Yeah. You two might be right." She frowned suddenly. "Coffee?"

"' _Your cocoa doth grow cold_ '," Aziraphale recited. "She was right. It had."

Anathema's hands came down hard on the table, jiggling the trio of tea cups. " _That's_ what that prophecy meant?"

"Do you really think there might be a prophecy in the book that will help?" Newt asked worriedly.

Aziraphale offered him a tight smile. "I'm not sure. The book saved Crowley and I once, however, so you could say I'm cautiously optimistic. I realize the chances aren't good, considering the prophecy that _did_ save us was her last."

"Not the last," Anathema groaned, "I burned the last."

"Let's not start that again," Aziraphale said reproachfully.

Anathema released a heavy sigh from deep in her chest. She stood from the table, smoothing a hand over the waist of her dress. "You're right. There's no sense dwelling on things we can't change. Aziraphale, you're welcome to study the book for as long as you need."

Aziraphale set down his tea cup, now empty. "Thank you, my dear. I'm really very grateful."

"It's the least I can do." Anathema smiled back. "Is there anything else you need?"

Aziraphale stood up. "Just a quiet room and a bit of light to read by, thank you."

.

.

.

For the next several days, Aziraphale did not leave the study of Jasmine Cottage for a single moment. He was so quiet and so absorbed in his work that on more than one occasion Anathema and Newt forgot he was even there, reminded only when passing by the study to find the door firmly closed with a sliver of light spilling out from under the door. Anathema checked in on him only once to ask if he'd like tea or perhaps some dinner; Aziraphale accepted the tea but politely declined dinner.

After nearly five days and a novel's worth of notes, Aziraphale closed the book and sat back in his seat, sighing hugely. Agnes's prophecies were as frustrating to decipher as he remembered, but he'd hoped having context of their new situation would make it easier to find relevant entries. Which either meant Aziraphale was rubbish at studying prophecies (for the record, he was not) or there were no prophecies that pertained to he and Crowley's current situation. It made sense, really, considering all of Agnes's prophecies were listed chronologically. Her last prophecy - not counting the prophecies Anathema and Newt set fire to, which was an event Aziraphale was actively trying to forget - had given them the idea to switch bodies, but there was nothing about the repercussions of that switch. None that Aziraphale had found in the last few days, anyway.

When Aziraphale appeared in the kitchen doorway, notebook tucked under his arm, both Anathema and Newt - one sitting at the kitchen table reading her newspaper with a cup of tea and the other standing over a pan of sizzling sausage and eggs, respectively - greeted him with near identical looks of surprise and concern.

"Aziraphale!" Anathema set down her newspaper. "Have you found anything?"

Aziraphale offered them both an apologetic smile. "I'm afraid I can't say for sure," he said. "But I don't believe so."

Newt's face fell. "I'm really sorry."

"Don't be," Aziraphale answered quickly. "It was worth a shot. And I took notes, in any case." He cleared his throat. "I'm afraid I've imposed on you quite enough. I really should be going, but thank you for allowing me to study your book. Again."

Anathema rose from the table. "You're leaving so soon?" she asked. "You could at least stay for breakfast."

Aziraphale hadn't had an appetite these last few months. It didn't feel right to enjoy himself with Earthly indulgences while Crowley was half a world away, doing God knows what for Michael. "Thank you, but I really must be going. There are other avenues for me to explore."

"Tea, then. While you're waiting for a taxi?" Newt offered, gesturing to the kettle. Aziraphale couldn't argue with that, really, so he allowed Newt to make him a cup of lavender tea as he used their phone to order a car. They all drank their tea in relative silence until the taxi arrived, and when Aziraphale got up to leave, Anathema insisted she walk him to the gate.

"I realize that the timing is… well, _awful_ , but..."

Aziraphale had just laid his hand on the top of the gate when Anathema spoke, and he glanced back to find Anathema holding out a lovely white envelope, decorated with a lacy pattern and sealed in crimson wax. Aziraphale had been invited to enough weddings to recognize a 'save-the-date' card when he saw one.

"I didn't know your address, or- or even your full name, actually, but we made one for you anyway. I'm not sure why. It was a compulsion, I suppose. "

Aziraphale took the envelope, holding it protectively in his hands. "How wonderful! I'm so terribly happy for the both of you," And he meant it, truly. "When's the happy day?"

"December 21st."

"Ah, the Winter Solstice."

"It's something of a family tradition. I've recently been learning how to break away from tradition, but Newt thought it was a romantic idea."

Aziraphale glanced back down at the dainty envelope. "It's kind of you to have kept me in your thoughts."

"It isn't addressed to you," Anathema said. She laid her hand over Aziraphale's, giving him a gentle squeeze. "I made it out to you _and_ Crowley. I assumed you'd come together." She leveled him a look that was nothing short of frighteningly severe, but Aziraphale understood her intention and appreciated it greatly. "I expect you _both_ to be there."

.

.

.

On the bright side, Crowley felt a little more like his old self when he was meddling with the daily routines of large groups of humans. He hadn't felt much like himself lately, so a little light meddling felt good and natural. The slightly less bright side of it all was that he'd only meddled because the alternative to meddling was letting a bunch of humans get smashed to smithereens.

Demons had it all wrong, where death was concerned. What good was it to get a bunch of humans killed? It was so much more satisfying to properly inconvenience them. Less messy, too. Though, as it so often did, Crowley's tendency to inconvenience humans often backfired and inconvenienced him, too. Crowley thought perhaps this time would be different, but the moment he heard his phone vibrate in his pocket he had an awful feeling he wouldn't get away unscathed.

Crowley pulled out his phone and answered, not bothering to check the caller ID. For the last seven months, he'd only communicated with one angel, and it wasn't the one he preferred.

"Hey, Michael. Was just about to call you! Job's all done."

" _Report_."

"Not much to report," Crowley answered coolly as he weaved his way through the droves of humans passing him on the street, their collective attention drawn to the circle of stopped cars and angry honking horns in the intersection not far off. "A demon called Malphas was causing a little chaos here in Dumai, had some evil plan involving traffic lights and a really big crosswalk. I took care of it, you're welcome."

" _Took care of it, how?_ " Michael asked peevishly.

Crowley swallowed. "Well I… I stopped it, didn't I? He meant to cause a big accident, big casualties, so I tweaked all the lights to freeze on red. So now everyone's annoyed but no one's dead. Problem solved."

" _You aren't there to solve problems_ ," Michael said icily. " _I asked you to watch the demon's movements, not interfere with its plans_."

"Yeah, right," Crowley began hastily, "Thought about it, I really did, and then I realized: this'll kill a bunch of people, probably, and made an executive decision to go above and beyond the call of duty. Thought you'd be pleased."

A barely audible sigh filled the line. " _I knew you were an odd one, but a demon going 'above and beyond' to save human lives?_ " she tutted softly. " _Humans die. It's what they do. I told you to find out what the demon was up to, not grow a conscious._ "

Humor wasn't working, so Crowley switched tactics. Trying to appeal to Michael's sense of justice, assuming she had one. " _Come_ _on_ , Michael. Putting more good in the world, that's what you do, right? I still got the intel you wanted, what does it matter if ol' Malphas's plans got a little derailed? Isn't that technically a win for your side?"

Silence filled the line. Crowley's blood ran cold.

" _Crowley, Crowley, Crowley,_ " Michael sighed. " _It isn't that you derailed another demon's silly plots, or even that you may have saved human lives. You failed to follow orders. Again. You know I have very little patience for those who fail to follow orders_."

Crowley slowed to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk, his faux heart hammering a hole into his ribs. People passed him without a thought or a glance, parting around him in that way humans had, like water flowing around a stone. Crowley stared down at his boots, trying to fight the wild fear that had begun to seize him.

"I don't think I'd call that 'failing to follow orders', really. More like… Ah, uh, _improvising_ extra orders. Maybe." At Michael's continued silence the fear mounted, pushing his panic into his throat. "Come on, Michael. Let's not- it's not necessary, you know. I won't do it again, yeah? I'll… I'll behave."

" _I know you will,_ " Michael agreed pleasantly. " _A little time in the box will make sure of that._ "

"No, _listen_ -"

Before Crowley could object he was gone from the busy Indonesian street as though he'd been picked up by a spectral hand and flung into the stratosphere. The air flew from his lungs and before he could even brace himself he had fallen into a painful heap somewhere else, somewhere hard and cold and _bright_ , so terribly bright.

Crowley groaned and pushed himself up on his hands and knees. His sunglasses were shattered, dark pieces of glass falling in shards on the pearl-white floor under him. Crowley's breathing was ragged and panicked as he sat up on his knees, squinting up at the fathomless white ceiling.

"There's no need for this!" Crowley shouted, wishing he didn't sound so terrified. "I get it, okay? You don't need to do this!"

There was no answer. There never was. Crowley was fairly certain that this whole process was automated. Michael probably had no involvement aside from dropping him off and setting a certain amount of time before Crowley was sent back to Earth.

Crowley rose to his feet, stumbling a bit. The room made him dizzy, too much white and light in every direction. It was quite a small room, perfectly square, but the lack of definition made it feel like it went on forever. As he always did when he found himself here, Crowley set about trying to find the nearest wall and running his hand along it's smooth surface, looking for doors, seams or exits of any kind. He never found one. He knew there weren't any, but he couldn't stand not trying. The horrible anticipation of what was to come would make anyone - demon or angel - busy themselves with the hope of escape. It was better than sitting and waiting for his punishment.

When he found no door or hole or so much as an imperfection in the walls caging him in, Crowley yelled. Then he screamed, and beat the walls until his arms were sore.

When he'd properly exhausted himself, he slid down the wall and sat on the floor, resting an arm on a bent knee. He waited. Part of the torture was in the waiting. It gave him time to reflect and anticipate, two things he really didn't want to do, partly because he didn't want to think about what was to come, but mostly because his thoughts always led him back to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale, who he would give anything to see again. Aziraphale, who he desperately hoped was safe. He hadn't seen him since their encounter in Ecuador months ago. Crowley didn't blame Aziraphale for that, of course; their first meeting had been so extremely risky in the first place, he'd damned himself every day since for agreeing to any sort of rescue effort, regardless of how convincing Aziraphale had been at the time. Sometimes he hoped Aziraphale had given up, cut his losses and moved on with his life. Other times - like now, for instance - he so badly hoped Aziraphale was still looking for a way to fight this. More than anything, he fervently wished Aziraphale could rescue him from what his life had recently become.

God, he missed Aziraphale. Missed their lunches, their long talks, their friendly strolls. He missed his bookshop, his silly new bedroom, his touches and his kisses and his long, breathy moans. He missed what they could have been together, if given the chance.

Above him, something flashed. Crowley jumped to his feet, wings bursting from his back. It never helped, but some part of Crowley deep down hoped that perhaps the presence of his wings - his only proof of his ancient divinity - would somehow serve as a 'get out of jail free card', but this room didn't function that way. There was no judge or jury or even a consciousness that he could see. Just the chains and the light and the _burning_.

The chains descended, snake-like, their ends pointed in Crowley's direction. Crowley's wings beat the air threateningly.

"Don't you come any bloody closer," Crowley shouted, frantic, his fear fully-formed and almost blinding. "Do you hear me? Don't even think of it!"

The chains, however, did not hear him, could not hear him given their nature, and in seconds they were shooting out at him, grabbing at his arms. Crowley only fought them off for a moment - he only ever managed a moment - before they wound their way around his forearms, the divine metal digging into his flesh and dragging him to the center of the room. Crowley struggled the entire way, wings flapping frantically, feet stumbling to find somewhere to plant themselves, but his efforts were in vain. The chains held fast, twisting his arms behind him and forcing him to his knees.

Another pair of chains burst out of the floor, wrapping tightly around his legs to keep him completely immobile. Crowley tried and failed to suppress a tight cry of pain as the chains dug into him, burning hot against his flesh as his clothes melted away, leaving him naked and bound in the middle of the room.

And then there was light.

An anguished scream tore out of Crowley's throat as Heavenly Light spilled down on him from the endless ceiling, searing his skin and his wings. It burned like Crowley assumed Holy Water might but without all the dying; there was just the pain, scorching and excruciating and entirely unending, and as much as Crowley didn't _want_ to die he thought perhaps it might be preferable to this. Crowley's wings rose to shield his body from the worst of it, but it made no difference. The light boiled his feathers and torched the very core of them until Crowley could no longer hold them up and they fell limply at his sides, fluttering weakly in agony.

Crowley wasn't sure how much time had passed. His throat had long gone raw from screaming and every inch of his skin felt like it was being flayed. His arms and legs were numb and he actually might have feared they had fallen off entirely - though he figured Michael wouldn't want him discorperated, too many questions - if not for the occasional tug of the chains to hold him up or jostle him back to consciousness. It seemed to go on forever. There was no room left in Crowley's mind for anything but the pain, no matter how desperately he tried to hang onto a single pleasant thought to distract him from it, they all flew away like leaves in a strong wind. Everything aside from Aziraphale's name.

If Crowley properly thought about it, which he couldn't presently, it made sense that Aziraphale's name had such a powerful pull in his mind. For thousands of years Crowley had spoken Aziraphale's name, he'd reveled in it, he'd pined after it and coveted it. That name was woven into his soul, it was an integral part of his being, and currently all Crowley could focus on between screams was that name, chanting every letter in his mind as if it were a magic word that could banish the chains and the light and open the door to this terrible room.

After what could have been minutes or years or decades the chains released him and Crowley fell into a heap on the floor, his muscles screaming in protest, a weak whimper leaving his throat as his charred skin made contact with the floor. The light faded and pulled back. Crowley curled in on himself, every single movement promising new and unique forms of pain, but he was almost too weary to care. He couldn't move his wings or his legs. He didn't try. Crowley just lay there, shivering and wracked in pain, his chest stuttering with tight sobs.

He wasn't given long to rest. Just when he thought he might actually slip into unconsciousness the floor dropped away and he was falling. The air and space that rushed past him felt like splashes of alcohol against his wounded body, but he was falling so fast he didn't even have the luxury of screaming into the void. He fell for so long he no longer had a sense of which way was up, or how long he'd been falling, which he supposed was the point.

After some time of spinning and tumbling through space, Crowley landed with a painful crack. The breath fled his lungs and he was left coughing and wheezing in a patch of damp grass, blanketed by moonlight. His wings were gone, retreated back into whatever dimension they disappeared to when they weren't needed, though Crowley could still feel the phantom pain of the injuries they endured in that awful room.

Crowley couldn't move. He never could after a session in the box, not for several hours at least, but he hated that he didn't know where Michael had deposited him. He could hear insects chirping and rushing water somewhere nearby, so he assumed he was somewhere on the outskirts of Dumai, hopefully far enough away from the general public that he could lie here for as long as he needed without being bothered. It was the _least_ Michael could do for him, considering.

Crowley curled into himself again, taking some comfort from the feeling of the cool, wet grass against his charred skin. Eventually he would get up, miracle himself some clothes, and make his way back to civilization after he'd healed enough to not look completely grotesque. For now, though, Crowley shut his eyes and tried to focus on his breathing. He tried to focus on Aziraphale, too; Aziraphale, his reason for continuing to endure this torment, his reason for just about everything.

Even now, as he lay curled up on his side on some nondescript riverbank, every inch of him burned, he didn't regret a thing. Michael was trying to break him, he knew that. She wanted him to resent Aziraphale, perhaps, blame him for the situation in which he found himself, but that only proved how little Michael understood about love. Or anything in the ballpark of real friendship, really, which was as infuriating as it was sad.

The only regret Crowley had was not saying those three special words back to Aziraphale on that beach when he had the chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's not having a super swell time honestly. Lots of hurt/comfort in the next chapter, I promise ;) 
> 
> Side note: if you'd told me months ago that I would be writing a scene with a character in it that sounds like, looks like, and IS Jack Whitehall, I would have thought you were insane but here we are
> 
> I'm ostrich-cakes on Tumblr, come say hello!


	4. Chapter 4

Scrying wasn't a practice Aziraphale had ever dabbled with prior to Crowley's disappearance months ago. He'd known about it, of course, it was wildly popular in the 10th century and found plenty of interest in all the centuries after, but Aziraphale had never seen fit to attempt it. He was an angel, after all. Whatever he needed to know or see was as easy as a trip to head office, or using a bit of magic.

That being said, Aziraphale never expected to be so entirely short on options. Scrying was a fantastically non-invasive magic that could scarcely be traced or detected, making it perfect for the rather cloak-and-dagger situation he'd found himself in. Though he knew it was unlikely this method would be discovered, he refused to take any chances. In actuality, hiding a small, oval antique hand mirror in a copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ was much more suspicious than if said hand mirror was simply left out on a table or beside his bed, as hand mirrors are want to do, but Aziraphale was resolute in that any evidence that he was looking in on Crowley should be covertly hidden. It gave him comfort, at least.

Since leaving Jasmine Cottage and returning to London, Aziraphale retreated into his bookshop and began meticulously studying his notes. He did this for days, making notes of his notes, switching words and phrases and meanings around until sometimes he thought he could _almost_ see an answer. But there never was an answer, not truly, and all Aziraphale ended up with was a deeper understanding of how easily the written word can be misinterpreted if one was really determined to wring a particular meaning out of it.

If prophecies weren't the answer, there were other avenues to try. Basic problem solving suggested that if Michael was blackmailing Crowley to keep them apart, then all that was needed was to turn the tables, so to speak. Blackmail the blackmailer. The only problem with that logic, of course, was the obvious: archangels did not typically make mistakes. Or at least, not from their own perspective, and their perspective was really all that mattered in this case. Regardless, Aziraphale set about to gather whatever information he could. Whenever he thought he could get away with it - which wasn't very often - Aziraphale slipped into Heaven in the guise of someone else. First he took Gabriel's form, Uriel after, and once he was even bold enough to disguise himself as Michael herself to see if he could make idle conversation with other angels while making vague suggestions that he hoped would spark something interesting.

("-like that time I did that truly blasphemous thing, yes, the Almighty would _surely_ be cross if She found _that_ one out. Do you remember? Oh, you remember, right?")

No one remembered anything, however, and tended to just laugh nervously in reply. After his unsuccessful trial-run of Wearing Michael's Face, Aziraphale decided that infiltrating Heaven was not the way to go about this, either.

And so Aziraphale was out of options. It had been months and he was no closer to rescuing Crowley, and he wondered grimly if Crowley had been right all along when he'd said there was no way out of this. He didn't want to believe that, but when August rolled around and Aziraphale found himself pacing aimlessly around his bookshop with more and more frequency, he had to admit he was stuck.

Aziraphale went to his desk and pulled out his copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ , opening the cover to reveal the hand mirror. He cleared a space and carefully lay it down, mirror side up, producing a few small candles to set in a half-circle around the reflective surface. When he was good and situated, he shut his eyes and murmured a string of words to wake up the mirror. When the glass glimmered and no longer reflected its surroundings, Aziraphale slipped on his spectacles and leaned in to look.

"Show me Crowley, if you please."

The surface of the glass rippled as though it were a puddle and Aziraphale had just dropped in a pebble. When it solidified again, a great light poured from it, shooting all the way up to the ceiling. Aziraphale pulled back, his vision white. He looked back, squinting, trying to make out anything other than the bright white that filled the entire surface of the glass. He could see nothing else.

"What in Heaven's name…" Aziraphale slipped off his spectacles, letting them hang on the chain around his neck. "I asked for you to show me _Crowley_ , not… whatever this is," Aziraphale gently admonished. "Could you find Crowley for me, please? Otherwise I fear I may go blind."

The surface of the glass did not ripple, and the light did not recede. It stayed strong and fierce, and after several more attempts to locate Crowley with the same result, Aziraphale blew out the candles and put the mirror away. Perhaps he would try again later with better success.

Days later, Aziraphale brought out the mirror and tried again. This time, the response was almost immediate and perfectly accurate; there he saw a faded image of Crowley sitting on a bench in a dark park, arms spread across the back rest, an ankle perched on his knee. He was looking out at a small body of water, barely a lake, the crescent moon reflected on its calm surface. Trees lined the backdrop, and behind them, tall city buildings. Fortunately, Aziraphale didn't need to delve into divination magic to know where in the world Crowley was. It was quite clearly Central Park in the United States, New York, and although Aziraphale had never been there himself he'd read enough to know quite a bit about the historic location.

A bit of divination _was_ needed, however, to see if Crowley was currently being monitored or if he was, perhaps, on a 'job' of some kind. When neither proved to be true, Aziraphale snuffed out the candles, left the mirror in Jane Austen's care, and locked up his bookshop. He nervously paced around for a moment, smoothed out his jacket, took a deep breath and held it when he zipped away.

The next Aziraphale opened his eyes, he was standing under a tree in Central Park, letting out a long breath through pursed lips. He looked around, taking stock of his surroundings, trying to pinpoint how near to Crowley's location he had found himself. Soon, he caught sight of a pair of dark, angular shoulders peeking up over the back of a park bench overlooking the same calm lake he'd seen in the mirror. Moisture immediately sprang to Aziraphale's eyes and a yearning flew through him, so strong it almost knocked him off his feet. He hadn't seen Crowley in so, so long, and yes they had been separated for much longer lengths of time over the centuries, but this was different, _felt_ different, and now that he was here, so close to Crowley he might reach out and touch him, he nearly felt like he could fight all the armies of Heaven single-handedly so that they were never separated again.

Aziraphale hurried toward the bench. As he grew closer he could tell Crowley had sensed him; Crowley's shoulders tensed and his head tilted to the side, barely.

"Crowley," Aziraphale said the name with all the love to be found in the world. "Crowley, it's me."

Crowley rose to his feet, though there was something about the way he moved that wiped the smile from Aziraphale's face. Aziraphale stepped forward in sudden concern, hands raised awkwardly as though he were ready to catch Crowley if he fell.

"Crowley?"

Crowley turned to him, and Aziraphale's chest seized in panic. Crowley's face was covered in burns. They spread from his forehead down to his neck and dipped under his shirt and jacket, ravaging his skin in angry red marks that were struggling to heal.

"Aziraphale," Crowley's voice was almost a whisper. "S'that really you?"

"Yes of course," Aziraphale answered just as softly, if only because he was fighting bursts of panic and rage and wild fear that were threatening to overflow out of him all at once. "My dear… What on Earth _happened?"_

Crowley tried to take a step and wobbled, losing his balance; Aziraphale practically flew to him, catching him before he could fall over and helping him into a kneeling position on the ground. Crowley cursed.

"I didn't want you to see me like this," he muttered miserably.

"Well it's far too late for that," Aziraphale said, more sharply than he'd intended, but he couldn't help but be outraged. He trusted Crowley knew the outrage wasn't directed at him. "Crowley, what happened to you? Who _did_ this to you? And why aren't you healing?"

Crowley glanced up at him, eyes hidden behind the usual dark glass. "Take a wild guess," he answered wryly. "Angel, I'm bloody happy to see you but I wish you'd waited a couple more weeks or so. I'd be all healed up by then."

"A couple of weeks!" Aziraphale exclaimed, horrified, "No, absolutely not, I will not have you in pain for that long. Not for a moment more." He moved to pull Crowley's arm over his shoulders, and gently hoisted him up. Crowley followed with a grunt. "Hurry along, dear, I'm going to get you somewhere safe and take care of this mess."

"Are you _mad_?" Crowley said. "Popping in for a visit is risky enough, you can't-"

"Not another word," Aziraphale answered firmly. "The way I'm feeling now, I almost wish Michael would show up so I could have a real go at her."

Crowley went quiet and slumped onto Aziraphale, seemingly convinced for the time being. He allowed Aziraphale to walk him out of the park and to a nice hotel which _would_ have been entirely sold out if not for the couple that had to leave very suddenly and inexplicably not ten minutes before Aziraphale and Crowley arrived to request a room.

As soon as they'd clambered out of the lift and into their room, Aziraphale hung the 'do not disturb' sign on the doorknob and helped Crowley to sit down on the bed. He sat down beside him and raised a hand to carefully pull off Crowley's sunglasses, but Crowley caught his hand before he could.

"Crowley-"

"Angel, there's nothing you can do," Crowley said heavily. "I appreciate this, really, but if Michael decides to check in on me tomorrow and sees I've been healed, she'll know it was you. Only an angel can heal these burns."

"And how often does Michael check in on you nowadays?" Aziraphale challenged, hoping he knew enough about his own kind to know what little attention angels tended to offer anything other than themselves.

Crowley's lips formed a thin line. "Well-"

"How often?"

"Almost never, but-"

"That's that, then," Aziraphale said, carefully removing Crowley's sunglasses and setting them on the nightstand. Crowley's eyes looked unharmed, thank the Almighty, but they looked tired. Sad. "I will not allow you to be in pain even a moment longer, do you hear? Now please, take off your clothes so I can see the damage."

Crowley looked down at the front of his shirt. He hesitated. Aziraphale moved off of the bed and knelt in front of him, placing his hands lightly on Crowley's knees. "I know you don't want me to see, but please know that I don't mind what you look like, Crowley. I can't stand the thought of you being in pain. I just want to help. Please."

Crowley sighed. Without a word he slowly shouldered off his jacket and started to unbutton his shirt. Each article of clothing he removed Aziraphale diligently collected, folding them neatly and placing them on the dresser. He didn't want to admit how frightened he was to see the extent of the damage, but once he'd folded Crowley's trousers he knew he needed to steel himself. He turned to view Crowley on the bed, and his chest tightened into a stranglehold. Somewhere in the distant universe, so far away it's light would never reach Earth, an ancient star exploded.

Every inch of Crowley's skin was burned. Even though Crowley was still wearing his pants Aziraphale could see the deep wounds spreading below the waistline and over his thighs and legs like spiderwebs. It took every bit of strength Aziraphale had not to burst into tears at the sight.

Aziraphale walked to the bed. Crowley didn't meet his eyes, looking decidedly away, and seeing Crowley's shame hurt almost more than seeing him so horribly disfigured.

"How could she," Aziraphale muttered, shaking his head. "How could an angel do something like this."

Crowley laughed dryly. "We both know angels are more than capable of this and more," he said. "This is nothing compared to what they were going to do to you."

"I beg to differ," Aziraphale answered. He sat down beside Crowley. "Do you think you could lie down on the bed? On your back, please. Take your time."

Slowly and carefully, Crowley obeyed. He laid down with his arms at his sides and his head turned away. Aziraphale knelt beside him, hovering a hand over Crowley's forehead. Crowley shut his eyes, and Aziraphale got to work.

"How did this happen, my dear?" Aziraphale tried again, gently. "And why? What could have brought this on?"

Crowley's brow twitched. Aziraphale's hand moved methodically over Crowley's face, the burns healing rapidly as he passed over each one. "Michael's sort of a stickler for rules. Who knew. Sometimes I do something that doesn't suit her very important errands she has me doing, and she doesn't like that much. So I spend some time in the box."

Aziraphale's hand halted over Crowley's shoulder. "The box?" He gathered his wits and continued, trying to focus on the relief of seeing the burns seal themselves up to reveal unmarred, smooth skin. "What on Earth is that?"

"Not on Earth, angel. Up there." Crowley jabbed his thumb upward. "Not sure who made it, or why it's there. It's just a nasty little room with no entrance and no exit and lots and lots of Holy Light. You don't need to know the details."

"I rather think I do!" Aziraphale exclaimed. "Crowley, Michael is _torturing_ you? And this has happened before? How many times?"

"Angel-"

"How many?" Aziraphale demanded, his hand trembling as it moved over Crowley's collarbone.

Crowley finally turned his head to look Aziraphale in the eye. His expression was deeply apologetic. "This was the fourth time."

"F- _four_ ," Aziraphale's voice faltered and he blinked away tears. He lowered his hand for a moment, simply because he'd started shaking so hard he knew he'd need a minute to collect himself before continuing. Crowley sat up and reached for Aziraphale's hand.

"Hey," he said gently, "I'm here, yeah? I'm right here."

The very idea of Crowley trying to comfort Aziraphale while Crowley sat covered in horrible burns after having been tortured - _for the fourth time_ \- brought more tears to Aziraphale's eyes and more pain to his soul. Crowley didn't deserve any of this. There was almost no one who deserved to be hurt in such a way, but this was _Crowley_ , a fallen angel who only ever asked questions, more mischievous than evil, and had more kindness in his little finger than all the angels in Heaven though he'd be loath to admit it.

"I'm so sorry," Aziraphale blurted out, taking Crowley's hands in his. Crowley's eyes blew open and his lips parted just barely. "I can't believe you've- you've been through so much, Crowley, and I haven't been there, I've just been dithering about, doing _nothing_ , and, and-"

"Angel! Hey!" Crowley shook off Aziraphale's clinging hands and reached out to hold the angel's face, forcing Aziraphale to look him in the eye. "You didn't do any of this, you hear me? This isn't on you. S'not on me, either. This is a very powerful, very creative archangel with a strong dislike of being tricked. She's trying to break me, but it won't work."

Aziraphale's hands hovered in mid-air awkwardly for a moment before coming to rest on Crowley's knees. "Tell me about this box," he said in a thick voice. "I need to know every detail."

Crowley leveled him a worried look. Aziraphale shook his head, stealing a deep breath through his nose and letting out slowly, calmly. "I'm not going to make a scene, I promise. I just need to learn as much as I can, so that I can look into this further."

Crowley released Aziraphale's face. "Dunno what you want me to say. Small square room, endless ceiling, magic chains that swoop down and keep a hold of me while the Heavenly Light does it's thing." Crowley raised his hands to perform air quotes around 'Heavenly Light'. "When it's over, I get spit back down to Earth."

Aziraphale's face screwed in horror. "Dreadful. Simply- _barbaric_ , is what it is, dare I say _evil_ , how an angel could possibly- no matter how questionable their ethics, it's quite- and how the _Almighty_ could allow such a- a, a horrific abuse of power and station, I _never_ -"

"Angel, you're babbling again."

Aziraphale shut his eyes for a moment, reigning in his composure. "Lay back down, my dear. I'm not nearly done."

Crowley offered Aziraphale a small, apologetic smile before doing as he was asked, assuming his previous position. Aziraphale raised a now slightly steadier hand and resumed his healing. There was silence between them for a moment as Aziraphale worked. For Aziraphale it was time to process. For months now he'd been worrying that Crowley might be lonely, or bored, or dissatisfied with being ordered around to do errands for a haughty angel. He never once considered how bad it could be, he'd never once thought that Crowley would be _tortured_. And by an archangel, no less. Aziraphale still had memories from before the Beginning, he remembered Michael leading an army of angels against the fallen. It was her sword that struck Lucifer down in the final moments. In that moment, a moment Aziraphale still remembered quite well, he was in awe of her - him, back then - and in equal measure, he feared her. But while she was fierce and ruthless she was also lawful, and when Aziraphale witnessed her sword gleam with the light of every star in the cosmos and all the powers of Heaven, Aziraphale thought perhaps it would be preferable to follow her command until the end of things. She was someone to be followed, most definitely.

Now, as Aziraphale worked to heal the body of the person he cherished more than anyone or anything in the universe, all he could feel was contempt.

"I bet you weren't," Crowley said, breaking through Aziraphale's dark thoughts. Aziraphale's hand halted and he blinked.

"Sorry?"

"You said you've been dithering, doing nothing. I know you, and there's no way you were doing nothing."

Aziraphale finished healing Crowley's right arm and moved onto his stomach. Crowley raised his healed arms, flexing his fingers with a look of relief.

"It _feels_ like nothing," Aziraphale admitted dolefully. "Especially now. The next time I saw you I wanted so much to have some good news, but I'm afraid I couldn't find a single scrap of information to get you out of this mess."

"Get _us_ out of this mess," Crowley corrected, letting his arms flop back down onto the bed. "Stop making this all about me. Your head's on the chopping block too, you know."

"Only it isn't, is it, because _you're_ the one Michael has chosen to punish for- well, everything." Aziraphale pointed out hotly.

"Well, I'm the demon. Makes sense, at least."

"I don't think a bit of this makes sense, my dear." Aziraphale sighed. "I visited Anathema and Newt, and took another look through Agnes Nutter's book. I couldn't find anything helpful, I'm afraid."

"Ah, well. We got her last prophecy, after all."

Aziraphale bit down on his urge to tell Crowley about the manuscript that Anathema burned. He had long decided to live in denial of that horrific fact. "I may have also popped into Heaven a time or two," he said, earning an immediate disapproving look from Crowley, "just to, ah, poke around, you know. I'm not even sure what I was looking for. Either way, I didn't find it."

"You were up there, 'poking'?" Crowley asked, bordering on angry. "Don't you think that may have come off as a little suspicious? Risky?"

"In disguise, dear. And I didn't linger."

Crowley relaxed. Aziraphale continued his work, healing Crowley's stomach and legs. He silently urged Crowley to turn over and lay on his stomach, and as Crowley did so, he cast Aziraphale a curious look.

"How long have we got, exactly?" he asked Aziraphale. "Last time we only had about five minutes."

Aziraphale started working on Crowley's back, immediately regretting not starting there to begin with. Crowley's back seemed to have taken the worst of it, the burns spreading deep and charred almost black. Aziraphale's throat squeezed at the sight. "Quite a bit longer than five minutes, I'd expect," Aziraphale said softly. "You would know better than me how little Michael looks in on you lately. I've been keeping tabs on that, naturally, but I know you're much more keen to notice unseen eyes."

"Well, uh, yeah." Crowley winced, barely noticeable, when Aziraphale's fingers moved over a particularly scorched area. "She doesn't check in like she used to, you're right. I think that's why she came up with the whole box idea. Keeps me on a short leash without all the supervision."

"What a civil way to describe something so monstrous," Aziraphale said with an air of ill-concealed bitterness. "Still. That doesn't mean I haven't taken the necessary precautions, of course. If everything goes according to plan, we have a few hours."

"A few hours," Crowley repeated it like a breath of relief, just short of a dreamy sigh. "Yeah, that could be nice."

"It could, rather," Aziraphale agreed with a soft smile.

They fell into a companionable silence as Aziraphale finished his work. The work being, of course, healing the dreadful burns all over Crowley's body, which was one of the most difficult things Aziraphale had ever had to apply himself to, but also the most necessary. This was the least he could do. If he could lessen Crowley's pain, even marginally, he would exhaust every ounce of his strength to do so. It's all he _could_ do.

Once he was finished and quite sure he hadn't missed a single burn, Aziraphale let out a huge sigh and sat back, resting his hands on his thighs. Crowley rolled over, running a hand over his unmarred chest, shutting his eyes. His expression said it all.

"How do you feel?" Aziraphale asked.

Crowley sat up, still rubbing at his skin in relief. He looked so much more aware, so much more like _himself_ ; Aziraphale couldn't imagine how much pain Crowley must have been in for it to have affected him so thoroughly. "I feel great, angel. Good as new."

Aziraphale forced a smile even though he found himself strangely close to tears. "That's- I'm so, so glad, my dear. Really."

Crowley's expression shifted. Softened. He looked at Aziraphale in a way that somehow conveyed everything all at once, how glad he was to see Aziraphale, how much he'd missed him during their time apart, how much he despised the idea that they would have to part again. Aziraphale could almost feel the depth of emotion, reaching through time and space and dimension to touch him deeply in his soul, and before Aziraphale could stop himself he was openly crying into his hands and Crowley was pulling him in, wrapping him up in his arms. Crowley tucked Aziraphale's head under his chin and held him tight, gently tugging Aziraphale to rest between Crowley's knees and practically in his lap.

"Never seen you cry," Crowley murmured into Aziraphale's hair. "Not in the six-thousand years we've known each other. And now I've seen you cry twice." He paused, considering. "It doesn't suit you."

Aziraphale wiped his cheeks, pressing his red face into Crowley's neck. "If you must know, I've never seen a reason to try it."

"Well, this is a pretty good reason. Though the world was ending once, remember."

"This is different," Aziraphale answered firmly. He pulled away, touching his fingers feather-light to Crowley's cheek. "This is you."

Something broke in Crowley then, or perhaps the better word was crumbled, and it was only then that Aziraphale realized Crowley had been holding something back. What that something was Aziraphale wasn't certain, but he didn't have long to pick it apart. Crowley dragged Aziraphale into a kiss that pushed the breath from his lungs, pouring months worth of desire and heartache from his mortal vessel to Aziraphale's with only the joining of their mouths. Every unpleasant thought in Aziraphale's mind melted away to nothing. All he knew was the warmth of Crowley's skin and the insistence of his seeking fingers as he tugged and almost ripped at Aziraphale's clothes, clothes Aziraphale promptly miracled away to join Crowley's on the dresser.

They came together so easily it was if they'd never been apart. Aziraphale straddled Crowley's slim hips and wrapped his arms purposefully around Crowley's neck, neither one of them breaking their kiss as they both worked to awkwardly pull Crowley's pants off, leaving them dangling from one leg. Crowley's cock bobbed free, coming to rest against the curve of Aziraphale's ass. Aziraphale shuddered, an indecent moan spilling from his lips and into Crowley's mouth, who responded by seizing Aziraphale's ass tightly in his hands and lifting his hips to position his cock just under Aziraphale's wet cunt. He rubbed the head of his dick against Aziraphale's sensitive folds. Aziraphale gasped and hugged Crowley tightly as Crowley entered him, both groaning in unison at the blessed sensation of being connected again. It was just as incredibly indescribable as their first time, and every other time in the six days that followed, but there was an element now that wasn't there before, electrifying the sensation for both of them. It was desperation, it was fear, it was the pure, nameless desire to love one another despite the universe telling them they shouldn't.

Aziraphale's moans painted the ceiling crimson and sharp magenta. Crowley breathed them in, laying hot kisses to Aziraphale's neck, holding tightly to his hips as they rocked against each other, their hips meeting over and over in a steady, heated rhythm. It was almost embarrassing how much Aziraphale missed this, this simple Earthly pleasure he'd only allowed himself to become acquainted with recently. He missed Crowley's hands on him, he missed the heat of his mouth and the snap of his hips and the intense adoration to be found in the depths of Crowley's eyes. More than that, he missed _Crowley_. Their lunches and their late night talks and their strolls in the park and even the hours they spent in comfortable silence, Crowley laid back on Aziraphale's couch scrolling on his modern phone while Aziraphale dove into a good book. It had all been taken from them.

When Crowley flipped Aziraphale over and climbed on top of him, kissing his lips until they bruised, Aziraphale finally identified the shift he'd seen in Crowley earlier, he realized what broke. Crowley was planning to say goodbye. This was their final embrace as far as Crowley was concerned, and as much as Aziraphale wanted to fight this until the bitter end, he knew it may well be a fruitless struggle.

In this moment, however, none of that mattered. They could make a world all their own.

.

"Sex is weird, innit?" Crowley mused, a wine bottle hanging from his fingers. The night was warm and humid, almost sticky, but angels and demons weren't bothered by such things, so assessing the weather was rather an inconsequential activity. The balcony on their room was nice and private enough to more than make up for it, anyway. It was just too bad they couldn't see the stars.

"How do you mean?" Aziraphale asked, his head resting on Crowley's shoulder, a drained wine glass folded in his hands. The distant noises of traffic barely reached them up here, but there was something strangely romantic about those muted sounds of human city life that Aziraphale couldn't quite put his finger on. Or perhaps every single thing he experienced with Crowley was subtly tainted by the affection he felt, regardless of how mundane it might be on its own.

"Well, it's like… When you really think about it, it's so pointless. Not- not for humans, obviously, it's how they keep plugging along as a race, but… For us. Or for humans who aren't looking to do that whole baby thing, I guess, but for us especially. At the end of the day, it's just a whole lot of smashing body parts together."

Aziraphale let his eyes fall closed. He focused on Crowley's voice and his warmth and the long arm that was wound around his shoulders to keep him close. "Well, ah, yes. Which is largely the reason I never bothered. Until now, that is."

"Strange then, that we went and did it. That we _wanted_ to do it. And then did it again, and again."

"And again," Aziraphale added with a faint smile. "It's not _that_ strange, I don't think. We've never shied away from Earthly pleasures, be it delicious food or human invention and progress. And sex just happens to feel rather good."

"Really, _really_ good," Crowley mumbled in agreement. Then he fell silent. He brought the wine bottle to his lips and took a long drink, loudly swallowing down the remainder and setting the bottle aside. "It shouldn't have meaning," Crowley finally said, his voice rough. "For us, I mean. We weren't made for it, it wasn't made for us. We don't procreate like humans, we don't even experience pleasure the same way."

Aziraphale's eyes popped open and he chanced a glance up at Crowley. Crowley was staring out through the gaps in the balcony barrier, but it didn't seem like he was looking at anything in particular.

"My dear, what-"

"It shouldn't have meaning, but it does." Crowley barreled on, speaking a little louder in an effort to be understood. He wanted to be understood, he wanted to be clear. "It has meaning because it's with you."

Aziraphale's concerned expression melted into a soft smile. He touched Crowley's knee. "Crowley, love of my life, you're drunk."

"I'm- nn- Yeah, a little. But I mean it. Sincerely."

Azirapahle leaned in again, resting against Crowley's shoulder. "I know, dear."

"What I'm trying to say, angel, is… Well, what I mean to say-"

Aziraphale nuzzled in closer. "I know, dear."

Crowley relaxed. Another silence fell over the balcony that was hard to categorize. They were enjoying each other but they were also dancing around quite a lot of words neither of them wanted to say. They may have danced a bit longer if they weren't rapidly running out of time.

"We can't meet like this again," Crowley nearly whispered. "Too risky."

"It's always been risky," Aziraphale pointed out. "That's never stopped us before."

"That was different. You _know_ that was different. The terms are clear this time. I need to stay in line, and I need to stay away from you."

Aziraphale sat up and turned toward Crowley, sitting on his legs, setting his hands on Crowley's thigh. "Then- then maybe it's time we took that trip to Alpha Centauri," he said. Crowley's eyes blew open. "Run away together, like you said."

Crowley's eyes grew soft and sad. "She'd find us, angel. Eventually."

"Well then, maybe… Maybe I'll just give head office a visit and try and sort this all out! If I could just talk to Michael-"

"You _know_ that's not an option, don't even think it," Crowley interjected seriously.

"Then we'll just keep meeting in secret!" Aziraphale said, desperate. Crowley covered Aziraphale's hands in his own.

"Angel, all it would take is us getting together at the wrong place and the wrong time, and we're _done_."

"I _know_ ," Aziraphale said in a tone that suggested he was determined to keep this argument going. When he realized there was no argument left to present, his gaze drew down to their joined hands. Crowley's fingers curled tightly around his. "I know." he said again, deflated.

"So you know what we have to do, then." Crowley said. Aziraphale shook his head.

"I don't believe I can possibly say goodbye to you, Crowley," he said, his voice quivering. "I truly don't think I can. Please don't ask me to."

The breath that passed Crowley's lips was terribly fragile. He released Aziraphale's hands and cradled Aziraphale's face, his thumbs tracing soothing lines along the angel's jaw. "Maybe 'see you later', then," he said. "Maybe in a hundred years or so, Michael will get tired of ordering me around all the time. Maybe she'll cut me loose and forget all about me and our deal. If that happens, I'll come find you."

Aziraphale felt a sob catch in his chest. Everything hurt, everything was too much and even the sensation of Crowley's hands on his face felt surreal and numb to the touch. "What if that doesn't happen?" Aziraphale asked him.

Crowley answered him by pulling him in, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale and holding him close. Aziraphale practically melted against him, pressing his face into Crowley's chest. He knew the words Crowley was going to say long before he'd said them. He didn't _need_ to say them. He'd been saying it for so long, for so many centuries, in every look and every touch and every action.

"I love you, angel. Never forget that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh the angst D:
> 
> sorry for the delay on this chapter, it's actually been written for a while but I had wisdom tooth surgery a week ago and there were a lot more complications than I counted on, so my recovery has been really slow. (and the pain has been really intense DX) I haven't yet returned to a super creative state of mind, but I'm hoping in the next week I'll feel well enough to start writing again! (Speaking of which, please forgive any errors in this chapter, I edited it during my recovery and I'm not 100% confident I caught everything)


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